


give me an end to sigh

by mttm



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Deaf Character, M/M, Sirens, junmyeon can actually cook, very determined (and uncultured) jongdae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 02:12:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12180891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mttm/pseuds/mttm
Summary: He had a face that Jongdae definitely considers a memorable one, the apples of his cheeks round and high and his eyes catching the light of the sun.





	give me an end to sigh

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [cc_round4](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/cc_round4) collection. 



> **prompt** : jongdae is a siren who enjoys toying with the hearts of sailors and then tossing them aside when he gets bored. his newest target is a fisherman named junmyeon, but no matter how much he sings to him, junmyeon seems to be unaffected by jongdae's voice, which is completely bizarre to him. what jongdae doesn't know is that junmyeon is deaf.
> 
> alternately titled: 26 times junmyeon was called 'the fisherman'
> 
> this is a whole ass rushed mess and it doesn't really make sense and i'm wavering between getting sick of looking at this or actually being proud of it, BUT i hope people enjoy this! to the prompter, thank you for such a wonderful prompt, and i had a good time writing it, even though i didn't do it any justice sadly. and thank you to the mods for putting up with the ugly way i managed my time lmao
> 
> apologies for any inaccuracies!
> 
> title taken from 'one time' by fka twigs.

The summer air feels humid, the moon’s pale face glowing high when he stands on the saltwater-slicked rocks, the edges digging sharply into the soles of his feet, the blinding strip of light from the distant lighthouse illuminating the shore in brief moments. He trains his eyes on the figure running to him under a dreamy haze, his newest lover, tripping on the too soft sand. A tremor of a song rises from his throat and he stretches out his arms in a welcoming manner, the tides slowly rising until they engulf the rock pools and his feet in lukewarm seawater.

Closer.

The sailor was a tall drink of messy black hair and wide eyes and an equally wide smile, face bright when he finally stumbles into Jongdae’s arms with rough hands wrapping around bony wrists. He’s always loved this part the most, a fresh start to the game he plays.

“I love you,” the sailor starts, words rushing out. “I’ve thought of you only, and so much that I think I’m going mad.”

Jongdae’s lips form a sly smile, hands coming up to cup the sailor’s jaw.

“You won’t have to worry anymore. I’m here,” he says, soft. The sailor smiles with one too many teeth, so full of relief that Jongdae considers not making such a beauty into a meal this time.

He curls his fingers around another fragile heart, teeth sharp and the corners of his mouth curved up with the knowledge that he’ll soon shatter this one too, and he sings, slow with the roaring of the waves accompanying his voice.

 

* * *

 

The wooden planks of the dock feel steady under Jongdae’s bare feet as he walks further from the shore, the salty air of dawn filtering through the strands of his hair. His skin feels awfully tight, stretching over his bones uncomfortably and desperate for the rush of seawater to sink in and fill him with a certain energy again. He furrows his eyebrows in irritation.

It’s always turned out the same no matter how he does it, a game that will eventually end as soon as he gets tired and the cycle will start again, the only purpose to lift the boredom that keeps burying deeper inside, even if just for a few moments. His lovers will bring him all sorts of gifts (whether bought at a hefty price or stolen) and place him on the highest pedestal, as if there was nothing above him and his satisfaction. Even that gets tiring after a few days. Blind and sweet infatuation will ebb away and is replaced by an obsession that frustrates him to no end, and the weak heart in his hand is tossed away with the blink of an eye. Jongdae’s seen so many faces come and go, some memorable and most of them forgettable. Either way they’ve almost always ended up as a perfect meal, so perhaps he isn’t complaining much. 

Reaching the edge, he turns and scans his surroundings – the beach is still drenched in shadow, most of the sun still hiding behind the dark blue horizon and not a sign of anyone yet – and he sheds his clothing, diving straight into the water with his eyes shut, figure cutting flawlessly into the waves.

It’s freezing, the cold piercing deeply into every pore of his skin, and he feels something close to a rebirth as his eyelids flutter open. The familiar and expected tingle trips down his spine and his fingers reach down to glide over the slick surface of scales, the fleshy slits lined on the nape of his neck fluttering subtly when he breathes. 

He swims through deeper waters, avoiding the stray tendrils of jellyfish, all the while watching the sky lighten and the sun rays stab through the murky waters, warming his skin. He feels alright for a little while.

 

 

Quick and skilled fingers unfurled the sails and arranged the nets with an easy and practiced rhythm, clearly having done it so many times already, Jongdae watches. He’s hidden behind a small boulder, head peeking out of the water with wet hair stuck flat to his forehead, eyes trained sharply on the figure steering away from the harbour to sail out on the open sea. A fisherman, and as his boat gets closer, Jongdae gets a good look before submerging his head back underwater just until the boat has passed. He had a face that Jongdae definitely considers a memorable one, the apples of his cheeks round and high and his eyes catching the light of the sun. In such a small town situated by the bay, Jongdae wonders why he’s never seen him before. 

But he’s perfect, and a persistent thought bounces around Jongdae’s head: _I need to get a taste_. The hunger is making itself apparent in his stomach, and maybe it’s because he hasn’t had a proper meal for almost a month now, chewing only on soft and tasteless little shrimp and the coppery taste of raw blood of bass he’s caught near the reefs tucking into his tastebuds unpleasantly.

Jongdae decides to restart.

 

* * *

 

The sky is cloudless and the sun shines down a bit too hotly on Jongdae’s shoulders when he focuses intently on the fisherman’s form – there’s a hat on his head and his eyelashes cast stark shadows against his cheekbones as he looks down briefly on the fish that’s been reeled in, still flopping and putting up a fight in the nets laid on the floor of his boat, a proud smile on his small mouth. Jongdae runs his tongue over the pointed ends of his teeth.

After discarding his former plaything (and this time a bit more gentler than usual), he’s been wanting to spot the fisherman again, and this time to drag him under Jongdae’s spell. He’s done this a multitude of times, his voice not just a bait but also his weapon; he’ll open his mouth with a song and inch closer to lure them in for just a single, long glance before dragging himself back underwater and leaving them wanting more, his face a repeat in their heads until his song brings them stumbling back into his arms. Jongdae doesn’t think of himself to be that vain, but he’s the star of his own show and he wants to keep it that way for however long it takes.

Jongdae runs a hand over his throat, and a melody creeps up softly before growing much stronger. His song dissolves up into the air, but the fisherman’s eyes never flit to Jongdae’s direction not even once, instead hoisting up the anchor and freeing the sails to return back to the shore, no doubt looking forward to the sales of his fish in the markets. Jongdae blinks, baffled, and clears his throat exaggeratedly before starting again, this time in a more loud and firm tone. The fisherman never looks back.

Jongdae huffs and feels heat flush his cheeks and the rhythm is ruined, the notes dissonant and clashing with each other.

Excuses are running through his head, and he worriedly thinks if his voice is finally giving out on him. His surroundings are empty with only long stretches of water around him, except he feels as if he’s being laughed at for his first ever failed attempt to lure in a mere fisherman, the sun mocking him as it grows scorching. He dives underwater to cool off his skin.

He’s in a foul mood as he makes his way to the shore just before the sunset, a deep frown on his face. He won’t give up just yet.

 

* * *

 

The morning air feels chilly even though it’s summer, and Jongdae’s crouched down at the rock pools again, running his fingers over an orange starfish attached to a rock that was most likely carried in by the high tides, rough bumps feeling like wet sandpaper. He’s hungry again, but he’s grimacing thinking about ingesting a starfish and scratching up the insides of his throat. He could just dive in and catch one of the mackerels roaming around the bay but the sea is far too cold, and he’d rather not deal with that, his feet already freezing from soaking in the shallow stream of water.

He’s getting the slightest bit tired from all this waiting to get another chance at the fisherman, but his stubbornness refuses to admit that he’s lost in the own game he’s created. He berated himself a couple of times for not at least following the fisherman to figure out exactly why he seems to completely be immune to Jongdae’s voice, and it isn’t natural for him to be this obsessed over something before, let alone _someone_ but again he reminds himself, it’s his stubbornness and his hatred for defeat (and possibly curiousity too).

His head snaps up when he hears footsteps crunching on the path of grass above that will soon bleed into soft, yellow sand that stretches for miles. Not wanting to attract any attention (and any intruding questions poorly disguised as small talk), Jongdae tries to look for a place to hide, hissing when a particularly jagged piece of rock stabs the sole of his foot. He scrambles behind a rock that juts out high enough to hide at least half of his body and crouches as low as possible, eyes peeking out.

It’s with a giddy feeling that he recognizes the figure as the fisherman, hair wild as the wind pushes through it.  _ Finally_, Jongdae thinks, but he’s perplexed as to why the fisherman didn’t take his route to the harbour, but it’s only been a few days after his first catch of this week, plenty of fish in his net and enough to put bread on the table for quite a while.

Jongdae watches him toe off his worn out shoes and bury his bare feet in the sand, walking towards the tideline. He trips and his hair flies across his eyes too many times until he finally plops down on the sand, close to the water but not too close to get the tide to wet his skin. Jongdae almost laughs.

The sun has already breached the horizon, splashing the dull sky with oranges and subtle purples, and the light reflects off his eyes so brightly that Jongdae forgets what he’s meant to do in the first place.

He wonders what thoughts are clogging up the fisherman’s mind, and if he ever gets sick of being out at sea too much. The ocean is Jongdae’s home and his lifesource, but even he gets tired of the endless blue that floods his vision almost every day.

Experimentally, a soft but steady melody floats from Jongdae’s mouth, the wind carrying the notes away. His gaze stays focused on the fisherman, searching for the tiniest hint of a reaction to his song.

Nothing. The fisherman never notices Jongdae, presence unacknowledged, just closes his eyes and lets the breeze brush against his face. 

Now Jongdae is convinced he’s finally fading away from this world and his voice is crumbling and losing the sharpness of his power.

“No, no, no,” he mutters to himself, his brain piecing half-formed reasons together and forcing them to fit awkwardly.

Jongdae seems to feel an extra bout of spontaneity today because he’s up on his feet in seconds, hopping over the rocks and stomping towards the fisherman. The sprinkle of sand everywhere from the force of Jongdae’s steps as he inches closer seem to finally catch the fisherman’s attention, and he looks up, eyes startled.

_God, he's stupidly gorgeous_ , Jongdae thinks furiously, before he regrettably opens his mouth to babble frustratedly.

“ _Excuse me_ ,” he says, haughtiness dripping from his voice, “but I have been screeching out my lungs to you multiple times already and you have the gall to ignore me?  _Who_  do you think you are?” He breathes in, nostrils flaring.

The fisherman alternates his gaze between Jongdae’s eyes and then his mouth, a nervous smile cracking across his face. Jongdae must look incredibly insane. The poor man hurriedly pushes himself up off the sand, a weak laugh falling from his lips and a stuttered apology coming with it. There’s a minimal heaviness to his words, as if something were weighing them down, and he almost slips when he jogs away from Jongdae, looking back once before shoving his feet in his shoes improperly and running up until he meets the grassy path. He disappears. 

Jongdae’s hands fly up to cradle his burning face. The first time actually directing the fisherman’s attention on him and he completely fucks it up with his big mouth. He groans.

 

* * *

 

The buzzing of voices and people bouncing about the market act as white noise, the faintly sweet smell of mangoes wafting up when he passes a fruit stall, legs taking him wherever. It isn’t as bustling as he used to remember it, but it feels good to surround himself with a different view at times, the air light and fresher than the brine filled breeze near the ocean.

Maybe he _has_ been observing one of the stalls, particularly the one selling saltwater fish, carefully watching a familiar figure move about weighing fish for the old women waiting in a short and crooked line, letting his partner – wide eyes, shapely lips and a smile that crinkles up his eyes into crescents – lead the small talk and hand over the fish already safely bundled up in plastic. Jongdae squints, eyebrows rising when the fisherman’s lips move, his hands moving in practiced gestures with his words as he talks to the other.

Jongdae might have scared away the fisherman the other day (very regrettably and embarrassingly so), but he’s still determined to not let him slip out between his fingers.

The fisherman – and Jongdae hopes he’ll have a name to go along with the attractive face soon enough – glances up from his conversation, likely feeling Jongdae’s eyes on him that were sharp enough to stab holes through fabric, and he blinks once, taken aback, mouth forming a small ‘o’. Jongdae knows he probably shouldn’t scare the man even more but he shoots the smallest and possibly enigmatic smile and turns to leave. 

He sweet talks a stall owner for a single mango before he goes.

 

* * *

 

One more time. Just once more, and if he still fails, he’ll back down entirely.

At least that’s what he convinces himself to believe for a little while before he’s dragged under an awkwardly odd situation, completely not what he had in mind at all.

He’s been lightly singing, smooth and airy and he feels his whole chest vibrating as he swims to the boat, and he gets close enough to see the peeling baby blue paint at the bottom. This time he intends to be in (sort of) plain sight, to give it his all as a last try. Jongdae’s careful enough to not accidentally get his slim and too-long tail tangled in the net laid out in the waters, the bait already set for voracious fish.

The fisherman’s looking up at the sky with a hand over his eyes, shielding the sun’s few rays. There are an abundance of clouds today, white wisps slowly blending into a soft grey. The rain wouldn’t hinder anything much, except most of the fish will go in deeper waters and hide from the rain droplets beating down on the surface of the ocean while sea bass rise up, feeding on any flying insects that got knocked down into the water. Jongdae hears him let out a sigh, eyes drooping.

Jongdae keeps humming, and he knows he’s close enough to be heard loud and clear, but the fisherman is distracted by the possibility of heavy rain, wavering between heading back to shore and working on a better day or staying and letting the rain pour over him, his hat acting as a tiny umbrella. That’s when Jongdae places his hands flat on the edge of the boat, making it rock when he pushes down the slightest, putting weight on it.

That gets the fisherman’s attention, yelping when he sways with the boat, his gaze quick to land on Jongdae. His eyes go wide like the moon, limbs freezing as his mind tries to process what’s happening.

And he rushes over to the edge, words tripping off his tangled up tongue and an arm reaching out.

“Are you alright, oh my god, what are you doing so far away from the shore, don’t you know how dangerous it is, please get on––"

His lips are a bit scrunched up and the words are more heavy and they don’t really end as questions that someone would ask in a proper way, only rushed assumptions that aren’t going to wait for an answer. Jongdae looks at the offered hand puzzlingly, baffled at how this man doesn’t seem to be getting the message he’s clearly trying to portray.   
  
“You’re hurt.”  
  
His attention is on the visible gills on Jongdae’s throat, seeming like clean, straight slices into the skin but unharmed, no blood rushing out. The fisherman inspects more closely, only stopping and swallowing nervously when the skin faintly flutters rhythmically to the rise and fall of Jongdae’s chest. His eyes hesitantly trail down lower, until he reaches the part of Jongdae’s torso where softly tanned skin disintegrates into silver scales that go on underwater. He recoils soon after, scrambling back.

“You–you’re the one who was… and you’re a fish...” he says, more to himself, before he thinks up of the closest weapon on the boat. He’s hurriedly sliding off his shoe and holding it up in the air, aiming it directly at Jongdae but not throwing just yet. 

 _The audacity!_ First comparing Jongdae to a simple fish and now thinking of throwing a worn out shoe at him as some kind of a weak defense.

"I," Jongdae starts, glaring daggers, "am a siren, not a _fish_ ," he hisses. Maybe all of this was a mistake, and for once he was too stupid for not backing down early. The fisherman is looking straight in his eyes as he talks, pupils dilating and fingers wrapping tighter around his shoe.

“I’m sorry,” he replies after the longest pause, voice so quiet Jongdae almost didn’t catch what he was saying, and he shakily points to his ear. “I–I can’t hear you.”

Jongdae’s eyebrows rise up so high that they almost disappear under his wet bangs, and he realizes.

_Oh_.

“Oh.” He feels so incredibly ignorant.

Thunder crackles once, and the clouds start to cry.

 

* * *

 

The beach feels empty and Jongdae is alone for at least a whole week after the mess he’s caused, only fish keeping him company, glassy eyes staring blankly back as Jongdae rants and talks aimlessly. He knows the fisherman might be telling his tale to other people after just seeing a whole mythical creature, but he also knows no one will believe a single word, labelling the story made up as always. He feels the littlest bit offended, but he’s not that worried.

It’s late, and he’s lying on the sand, eyes closed and arms acting as an uncomfortable cushion for his head. There’s the shuffling of sand behind him but he couldn’t care less until he feels it, that heavy feeling you get when someone’s eyes are on you as you sleep, face inching closer. He’s wide awake now and off his back, blood rushing back to his numb arms and a hand flying to his chest to calm down the loud beats of his heart against his ribs.

It’s him again, really back and willing and wanting to talk again and Jongdae’s so surprised he doesn’t utter a word, only watches as the man sits down cross-legged on the sand.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he first says, and he looks up, the corners of his mouth lifting minutely. 

Jongdae slowly nods. The wind cards through their hair.

“I’m Junmyeon."

_Ah, I finally have a name_.  Jongdae feels something bloom weirdly in the bottom of his throat and he laughs stupidly, shoulders jerking up once and he’s smiling wide for no reason at all. Junmyeon, Junmyeon, Junmyeon, familiarizing on his tongue and a chant in his head. He writes his own name in the sand, tiny grains getting under his fingernails as he traces each letter out. 

“Jongdae,” Junmyeon reads out, and it’s calm.

 

* * *

It definitely goes in a more different way than he usually expects; the first thing Junmyeon ever introduced to this odd little friendship(?) was a thick, blue notebook and a box of eight pencils, establishing an easier way to communicate. Junmyeon can’t really read lips all that well, Jongdae learns, and it only drives him to complete frustration when a sentence goes beyond five words uttered. Jongdae  _has_ learned to write and read after so many years of observing humans around him and picking up every book with the most eye-catching covers, yet he still spells some things incorrectly, his handwriting legible but all scratchy. They teach each other things, and it soon falls into an easy routine.

 

* * *

 

The day Jongdae gets shown to Junmyeon’s tiny house is when they take refuge from the rain, cycling back speedily on Junmyeon’s rusted bicycle with Jongdae perched precariously at the end, arms wrapped so tightly around Junmyeon’s waist, afraid to fall, eyes squinting through the ongoing downpour and the rush of wind.

They’re giggling with chests heaving when they stumble through the door, clothes soaked almost all the way through and water dripping from their wet hair down to the floor, creating little puddles. Thankfully the notebook is still intact, shoved under Jongdae’s shirt to shield it, the cover the slightest bit stained by rain.

The house consisted only of a moderately sized room, small kitchen by the corner and a springy mattress supported by a creaky wooden bed frame tucked in the other, faded grey sheets neatly made. The thing that catches Jongdae’s eye the most is the large bookshelf at the side with probably hundreds of books propped up, and at closer inspection the books are arranged in alphabetical order, paperback spines worn and crinkled up. The rain beats down harder on the roof and the glass panes of the window, thunder a rumble in the distance.

Junmyeon notices him staring at the books. “I’ll let you borrow any of them if you want.” Jongdae feels a teeny bit grateful.

After drying off with a scratchy towel that smells too strongly of detergent, they sit on the bed together, the mattress sinking down. Junmyeon looks at his fidgeting hands while Jongdae examines more of the house. There’s something cozy about it, a constant feeling of safety present as he stares at a long crack in the white paint on the ceiling. 

Junmyeon speaks up first. “Hungry?”

Jongdae shrugs. He suddenly wonders how he’s going to tell Junmyeon he sometimes (mostly) eats humans without scaring him away for a third time. An internal sigh rings in his head.

Junmyeon smiles and gets up, walking to the kitchen, Jongdae’s eyes on him. He turns.

“Ever had spicy fish soup?” And Jongdae shakes his head. With a pleased smile, Junmyeon gets out a huge pot from the top cabinet, standing on the tips of his toes and his shirt lifting up a little. It’s cute, really and very. Jongdae gets up and stands right next to Junmyeon, their shoulders touching, and he watches Junmyeon’s hands move swiftly as he cuts up vegetables which names are mostly unknown to Jongdae, the pot filled with water and brought to a boil. It takes a while and Jongdae stands in his spot for so long that when he finally moves to sit down at the little kitchen table to try Junmyeon’s concoction, his bones protest with a shock of numb pain running up his legs.

Jongdae feels a little doubtful about trying out something so new, but Junmyeon looks so encouragingly at him, waiting for his opinion on it that he swallows down the feeling and grabs a spoon. Leftover white rice has been served with it and it’s cold and goes down in sticky clumps down his throat but the soup heats up his body in a pleasant way, the spiciness of pepper sizzling and setting on his tastebuds. Jongdae thinks this is the best meal he’s ever had in his entire life, better than the thick meat of humans and starfish and the raw blood of fish. 

He almost finishes the whole contents of the pot while Junmyeon only has a single serving, instead so focused on how Jongdae eats (which was very improper and lacking of any table manners, but Junmyeon doesn’t mind, only smiles, cheeks round).

“Good?” he asks to which Jongdae nods vigorously as a response. A laugh. 

They lie in bed after, a good distance between them, Junmyeon curling in with his back flat on the cold wall behind him. Jongdae isn’t exactly tired, just basking in the pleasant buzz circling around in his veins. Junmyeon falls asleep first, and he follows soon after when the rain doesn’t seem to be letting up, acting as a lullaby.

 

 

Cicadas are chirping loudly right outside, the humidity and smell of petrichor seeping in through the cracks of the quiet house. Jongdae fidgets uncomfortably, and he props himself up on his elbow in bed, pencil gripped loosely in his fingers.

He thinks it’s about one in the morning, almost close to two, and the notebook is between them, the lamp on the bedside table switched on. It shines bright and Jongdae’s reminded of the lighthouse.

Junmyeon asks the questions and Jongdae writes down the answers. Junmyeon asks him is he’s ever seen the whole world through their beaches, and seen so many colourful fish and different faces pass. Jongdae hasn’t been to anywhere that wasn’t in this small town, but he’s always wanted to leave and see the most brightest of blue oceans in the world and look at his own reflection in the clearest of crystal waters. There’s nothing holding him back but himself, he supposes. He still hasn’t figured out the reason why yet, but he’ll get there soon enough.

Then he pauses, wondering if he should just tell Junmyeon everything or let it brew hideously at the back of his mind and threaten to slip out and ruin everything. He swallows and does it, either now or never, he thinks. Junmyeon only reads his words blankly for a moment, blinks once and doesn’t say anything for a while after setting down the notebook. Jongdae prepares himself to be told to leave and never come back.

Instead: “Why me?”

Jongdae’s a bit taken aback by the completely unexpected and simply worded question. But he writes back.

_I liked your face_.  

Junmyeon huffs out a laugh, the ends of his mouth stretching back weirdly when he suppresses a smile, pushing his cheeks up. 

“So that’s where all those missing sailors went, huh?” Junmyeon says, a humorous tone to his voice to try to lighten up the mood but Jongdae can tell he’s a bit on edge, alternating between making a run for it or staying next to him. Jongdae hopes he’s choosing the latter. 

The next comes out a bit quieter. “Are you… thinking about making me into…” he trails off, but Jongdae completes the sentence for him. He’s never thought about that once since he’s started talking to Junmyeon, but he’s already made his decision anyway. He’s not certain if it’ll change, but he’s certain of right now.

A pause that drags on and Junmyeon looks close to melting into the mattress.

And Jongdae laughs, the sound loud and bouncing off the walls and the light reflecting off his sharp teeth, making him look menacing. He shakes his head and his eyes are on Junmyeon’s, lips forming a clear ‘no’. He notices Junmyeon’s tense shoulders relax.

“Remember when you first came up to me on the beach?” Jongdae groans. “I really thought you were going to kill me with just your eyes. And when I saw you again at the market too.” Junmyeon chortles and pauses, clears his throat.

“But I liked your face too.”

And Jongdae smiles, kittenish.

They stop talking then, and when Jongdae is just about to let his eyelids flutter closed again, Junmyeon speaks.

“Will I be a someone to you, Jongdae?”

Now he doesn’t know how to answer that, and he thinks for the longest time. There’s been so little people he considered genuinely important to him and it’s been so long since he’s loved, and he imagines his heart has probably shriveled up behind his ribcage, all stone cold. Junmyeon’s still waiting for an answer, eyes blinking nervously when Jongdae scribbles down on the paper.

~~_I don’t know_~~  

 ~~ _Maybe_~~  

_I hope so. _

 

* * *

 

(As he’s promised, Junmyeon lets him borrow as many books as he wanted and Jongdae goes through every single one that Junmyeon’s recommended. He learns that Junmyeon has a certain affinity for crime novels and ones that are twisted with obscure and vague plots that lead to a specific meaning that the reader has to interpret for themselves, and Jongdae doesn’t understand a lick of it but he loves them anyway.)

 

* * *

 

“Can I see your tail again?” Junmyeon asked, and he decides, yes.

  
They left for the beach again before the sun rose, Junmyeon fumbling about and flustered when Jongdae slips off his clothing and tosses them on a nearby dry rock, making Jongdae titter when he looks down at his feet, teeth showing a little when he smiles shyly. And now Junmyeon is waist-deep in seawater, not caring about soaking his clothes but he’s cringing the whole time as he waits for his body to adjust to the cold temperature. Jongdae swims closer to him and floats on the water with the end of his tail flicking up and splashing droplets up and everywhere. Junmyeon looks mesmerized staring at the silver scales, and if it still shines so iridescently in dull light he wonders how even more beautiful it would look in broad daylight, slicing through the currents. A finger comes down to run a crooked line down Jongdae’s tail that looks twice as longer as him, moving to curl around his leg.

“Slimy.” Junmyeon wrinkles his nose and Jongdae snickers.

They sit on the shore after, Jongdae willing for his tail to disappear. The sunrises always seem different every time he sees it, and it never turns into a tiring sight. 

“Don’t you get lonely sometimes?”

_I have the fish_ , he writes in the sand, smiling small.  _And for now, I have you_.  

They take a short nap when they get home, a bit exhausted, the distance between them when lying in the same bed growing shorter.

 

* * *

 

Jongdae’s been next to Junmyeon’s side for a week and a half already, longer than any one of the temporary lovers he’s spent with, but Junmyeon isn’t a temporary lover or a simple plaything. But Jongdae likes him a lot, learning so much from him than he’s ever had in months. The boredom he’s been fighting off for so long hasn’t reared its ugly head when Junmyeon is near him, and that’s something.

Junmyeon asks him to sit close in front of him one day, and Jongdae almost flinches back when Junmyeon’s hand reaches up to his throat, fingers splayed softly over his skin.

“I want to feel you sing for me.” And Jongdae gets what he’s trying to do. Jongdae places a hand over Junmyeon’s, holding it down to touch his skin closer, and he can feel the warmth from Junmyeon’s palms radiating and sinking in. He sings and Junmyeon’s eyes are fixated on his mouth, feeling the steady vibrations of his vocal chords. Jongdae feels the slightest bit sad that Junmyeon can’t hear the whole of his song and the way the melody goes, but he’s glad in a way, because he doesn’t have Junmyeon forced under a stupid spell and he has the entirety of Junmyeon’s conscious self right here and not trapped in a blinded haze.

When he finishes, Junmyeon has such an admiring look plastered on his face and Jongdae feels like kissing him right there but he doesn’t, but he does have the widest smile he’s ever had on in a long time.

 

* * *

 

Junmyeon is perhaps the best cook in the world (he insists he’s not, saying that if he really is, then his dear friend whose name Jongdae soon learns is Kyungsoo, would be a god in cooking), making a variety of seafood dishes that never turn out bland.

He’s staring weirdly at Jongdae, who’s eating stir-fried squids and spicy and sour shrimps at a pace what a normal person might label as aggressive. Jongdae stops when he notices that Junmyeon hasn’t touched his food yet, and he looks up to see those curious pair of eyes.

“What?” he says a single word, the sauce staining the corner of his mouth an orange-y hue. 

“Your teeth are incredibly sharp.”   
  
Jongdae pouts, his tongue instinctively running over his teeth.

“You don’t like them?” Jongdae replies teasingly, but Junmyeon just raises an eyebrow. Jongdae lets out a dry laugh, mouth looking more like a grimace and goes back to eating, this time in an overly gentle way.

 

* * *

 

Junmyeon’s about to leave the harbour to fish in offshore waters again, the sky slowly lightening, and Jongdae is standing on the deck watching Junmyeon, gripping the notebook in one hand. Today, Jongdae wants to try, and even if he is rejected and pushed away, he figures it’s better to do it now than let this grow into something bigger which would just hurt even more if it goes on longer. Jongdae considers himself as someone who isn’t afraid of anything, but now he feels his palms start to grow sweaty.

Junmyeon is now turned to him, face bright enough to rival the sun.

“I should be going now.” He glances down at the water. “But you can follow as well, I’m sure,” he lightly jokes. Jongdae doesn’t laugh, but that’s because he feels like he’s choking on his words and he’s threatening to burst. He has written so many variations of them in the notebook while Junmyeon slept, and he’s still not sure what he’s supposed to say. He’s usually the one at the receiving end of endless proclamations of love, but this isn’t some one-sided love, isn’t even real love he guesses, but this weird, hideous but also amazing feeling growing larger in his chest every day when he looks at Junmyeon.

He thinks, fuck it. 

Junmyeon is looking at him concerned. Jongdae writes in the notebook for a second.

_ Can I kiss you before you go? _

“Oh, wh–” Junmyeon stutters, trying to form a whole sentence before Jongdae writes down a few more words.

_ I like you. _

Jongdae feels disgustingly cheesy and he wants to scrub it off himself, but he subconsciously holds his breath as he waits for Junmyeon’s response.  “A lot,” he mouths, and Junmyeon gapes at him. He hears birds squawking from above, as if laughing at their predicament. Not a word comes out of Junmyeon for a while, until:

“You’re acting as if I’m planning on going away for three years.”

Jongdae’s mouth opens and closes like he sees the fish do. Junmyeon only laughs.

“You can, I mean. You can kiss me.”

Jongdae swats Junmyeon on the shoulder as a playful reprimand, and he rushes in to meet their lips together, heart feeling like it’s swelling and floating up like a balloon. Junmyeon’s lips are rough and dry and so are Jongdae’s, but they move together smoothly, forms fitting into one another like a perfect puzzle piece, and both of Jongdae’s hands come up to cup Junmyeon’s face, fingers tangling in clean hair. Junmyeon presses against his mouth harder. He wants to cry a bit in joy. 

When they both pull away, Junmyeon’s face is flushed pink and he’s smiling soft again, his cheeks pushed up high and round. Jongdae’s heart drops back down to his knees.

“Your knife-like teeth are a bit hard to look past by, but you kiss nice.”  
  
He’s slowly revealing the jokester in him, and Jongdae whines, swats him on the arm this time. Junmyeon gives another tiny peck on Jongdae’s lips.

This isn’t exactly love, not at all, maybe not yet, or maybe never. Jongdae knows he'll never admit to himself on how scared he actually is of all this, his pride getting the best of him, but he wants to see it to the end, even if it’s a bitter one.

He follows Junmyeon out to sea as always, and this time he finally has him cradled in his hands. It feels good.

 

 


End file.
